Love and Hate
by bean21
Summary: -Rigoletto- I didn't know where I was going. I just had to get out.


Love and Hate

I still remember that night. How could I ever forget? I think about it every time I look into the mirror that Mr. Ribaldi gave to me. I didn't know where I was going. I just had to get out. I couldn't stand to be in that house a second longer. I wanted to explain that to Georgie, but I could barely get it straight in my own mind, and there was no way I could tell her or make her understand.

So I just left. It was good to get out in the cool night air. My thoughts didn't feel quite so stifled, but they still didn't make sense. My feet started running the second they touched the ground. I couldn't slow down, couldn't stop. I just put my head down and ran. I wouldn't have been able to see even if I was looking; my tears were blinding me. I just kept going.

I didn't know how I got there, and I still don't, but when I looked up I found myself opening Mr. Ribaldi's gate and going in. I wanted to stop, wanted to run the other way, to get out of there. But I couldn't stop myself. Something drew my feet forward, no matter how much I screamed in my mind to get out of there. I reached the stairs leading to his door. Glancing around, I walked up them. I went up to his window. Something made me want to see inside this house where Bonnie worked.

After a quick glance I wanted to leave. When I turned around a dark shape blocked my way.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He didn't actually tell me, but it was a dumb question. I knew exactly who he was. How could he be anyone else? Instead of answering, he asked me who I was.

"I'm P-p-porter. I'm a friend of B-b-b-bonnie's," I stuttered. I looked up at him, and for some reason I didn't feel at all afraid. I didn't want to leave any more. But another feeling crept into the back of my mind, even though I couldn't understand it. I felt ashamed. Ashamed of my stuttering, and ashamed of something else inside me.

"Yes. Bonnie speaks highly of you."

"Really?" I smiled a little bit. I'd always known Bonnie was an amazing girl, ever since the first time I met her. But I could barely understand how someone, even Bonnie, could speak highly of a poor boy who could barely talk.

"She tells me you've got a problem."

He didn't say it in a mean voice, or a mocking one. He just sort of said it. "Sit down."

I slowly sat down on the bench, but my fear started to grow again. What was he going to do to me? I didn't believe the silly stories the kids told about him being a blood-sucker. But I didn't know what he was. Still, I couldn't leave. I had to stay. Even when he sat down beside me, my confusion, my fear, and my shame all seemed to grow. So did my anger. I didn't know what he was going to say, but I felt like I had to say something about how I was feeling or I'd burst. I thought that I would pour my heart out to this man I barely knew, if only I could speak well enough to give words to the intense emotions that were building inside me. But I knew I couldn't, so I sat quietly.

I could feel his gaze on me, but I couldn't bear it, so I looked down. Though my eyes would not look at him his voice met my ears.

"There is nothing more mean and ugly in this world than to have a beautiful gift, a loving spirit, and a desire to give and share these things, when there is nobody to share them with."

This time I couldn't stop myself from looking up at him. His voice was low yet passionate, and it filled my head and my heart. I looked up at his eyes and knew exactly what he meant, but didn't want to think about it. I wanted to shove it aside, back into the far corners of my mind where it wouldn't be known. I looked down again. Yet he continued to speak.

"You know what I mean, don't you, Porter?" Tears pricked my eyes. My head stayed bowed. "Is it your father?" He had done it. He had pulled out those thoughts that I never wanted to think.

"I hate it," I heard myself saying. "I hate my d-dad." There. I had said it. I sniffed.

"Do you know what I think?" Ribaldi's soft voice asked.

"W-what?" I didn't know, but I wanted to. For some reason I desperately wanted to know exactly what he thought.

"I think that you love your father. And you hate the way you feel."

He paused, but I couldn't say anything. He leaned a little closer.

"_Change _the way you feel."

"He doesn't deserve love! He's mean and selfish. He doesn't care about us! He only cares about himself. I hate him! He should love us! He should take us hiking, fishing, teach us how to play ball."

I couldn't say any more. I grabbed my head in my hands and began to cry. I knew these feelings had been in my heart, but I always got scared when I started to feel them. I couldn't behave like this, not in front of Georgie. I couldn't even say those words to myself before, but they had been there for a long time.

Ribaldi put his hand on my head and drew me in close to him. I wept onto his chest while he pressed his lips to my head. Like a father might do. But not my father. I tried to stop my tears while Ribaldi lifted his head, but still held me.

"Sometimes it takes hard times to make us gentle and strong," he said softly, kindly.

I couldn't understand his words. "How can it do both? It just makes my dad mean."

"Meanness isn't strength," he said as I pulled away from him. "Your father is not a strong man."

I looked up at him, knowing that was he said was true, but wondering how it was supposed to help me.

"Not yet anyway. But who knows what tomorrow brings?"

I bowed my head again, not able to answer.

"You mustn't give up on him. He needs the love of his family now just as you need his love, and someday you'll both get what you need."

I still couldn't answer, but I knew he was right. He was right about everything. I loved my father so much, and I knew it. I thought that I hated him and hated how he treated us. What I hated was that I felt resentment and anger towards him. I hated that I couldn't do anything to help him. Yet somehow, as I slowly stopped crying and my thoughts became clearer, I knew that Mr. Ribaldi had given me the answer. I could do something to help my dad. I could love him and support him.

"Do you see this mirror?"

"Yeah," I whispered, while he held it out in front of me.

"It's a magic mirror."

"Like in Snow White?" I asked. I didn't really believe him, but I couldn't take my eyes off the mirror.

"Now that you mention it, I think it was Snow White who gave this mirror to me as a gift," he answered.

I looked up at him, disbelieving and amused, yet intrigued.

"If you look deeply into the mirror," he continued, "and tell yourself what you've learned tonight, the mirror will show you how you've been made a better man."

"I don't understand," I answered, glancing quickly at him, then back into the mirror he held.

"You d-d-d-don't?"

I looked at him, amazed, then took the mirror and looked into it at my own reflection. Suddenly I realized that I had been talking with him, pouring out my heart, and hadn't stuttered once.

As I looked at my reflection I could see that something had changed. I looked the same, but different. My face wasn't so filled with grief or anger, and my eyes showed a peaceful and happy mind, one that wasn't confused or ashamed or stammering to get my words out.

"Wow."

I smiled at Mr. Ribaldi, then looked back into the mirror again. Maybe it really was a magic mirror. Yet as I looked again I knew the truth. What I was looking into was as normal a mirror as any other. What was truly magic was what Mr. Ribaldi had taught me. The mirror did show how I had become a better man. It showed that I had learned the power of love over hate.


End file.
